


Afterlife

by Scribe



Category: due South
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-12 16:05:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1191189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scribe/pseuds/Scribe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray comes back from Vegas with a list of things he wants to say.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Afterlife

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Seascribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seascribe/gifts).



> Seascribe wanted post-canon F/V fixit with kissing. I tried!
> 
> Content notes: panic attacks.

_

It feels like you died and you didn't get everything done. That's how I felt when I walked out of here.

_

 

Ray comes back from Vegas with a list of things he wants to say. It's an old list, worn smooth and familiar from the nights he spent turning it over and over in his mind, a talisman, something that was purely and comfortingly Ray Vecchio. He'd said his goodbyes before he left, of course, but as the months passed they'd seemed remote, inadequate. The more he suspected he wouldn't be coming back, the more things he realized he'd left unsaid. 

His family figures heavily, but there are other people, too: Ange, Frankie Zuko, Welsh.

A lot of the list is for Fraser.

\--

Ray's still on the good drugs the first time Fraser calls. He's lucid, mostly, but kind of floaty, and it takes a lot of effort to focus on what Fraser's actually saying rather than just drifting with the sound of his voice. He manages to grasp the most important specifics, he thinks: the bad guys captured, the good guys unharmed, something about falling out of planes and a nuclear submarine. Vegas is maybe the most surreal, the most _unreal_ place in the country, and Fraser's daily life still manages to be stranger.

And then there's the part where Fraser's going off with Kowalski. He's kind of fuzzy on the details there, because Fraser starts making worried noises and saying he'll call back when Ray's feeling better, which is probably a good idea. Not that he really wants to have that conversation, but if they're having it it'd probably be better if he could actually follow a train of thought for more than two sentences.

Fraser wishes him a speedy recovery and promises to be in touch soon. Ray hangs up the phone- gingerly, with his good arm- and is vaguely surprised to find himself crying. It's weird because he doesn't feel upset. He's a little sad about Fraser and Kowalski, sure, but mostly he's just relieved; he's alive, Fraser's alive, he's _home_. 

"Look at you, you're a mess," says Pop from where he's leaning in the doorway. 

"Oh, fuck off," Ray tells him, which he never, ever would have said when Pop was alive. The sound of the words is so strange that it strikes him as funny and he starts giggling uncontrollably in the suddenly empty room.

So, yeah. The _really_ good drugs.

\--

Fraser calls again a few days later, before he and Kowalski head out of civilization. They've switched Ray's medicine by then, which means he's grumpy and in pain, but at least he can carry on a coherent conversation. 

"I'm sorry, Ray," says Fraser, for probably the hundredth time. "I didn't anticipate how much attention all of this would generate."

"And your family's all tangled up in it, I get it," Ray tells him. "It's okay. You do what you need to." The press would have creamed themselves over just the Russian submarine story; the fact that it comes with a dead-mother-noble-mountie revenge narrative is like the icing on the journalistic wet dream or something. Ray would have had to yell at Kowalski if he _hadn't_ gotten Fraser out of there.

"I would have liked to be there for your recovery, though," says Fraser.

"Hate to break it to you, but I doubt even you could make somebody else's body heal faster with sheer force of will."

"I could have at least kept you company."

"I'll be fine, Fraser, I've already got my whole family fussing over me and I can't even really get out of bed yet. You'd be bored out of your mind within two days. Sledding with Kowalski will be a hundred times better."

"Well," says Fraser. "Thank you for your understanding, Ray."

"No problem," says Ray, and makes himself add, "he's a good guy." It's not even all that grudging. Frannie's had ample time by his bedside to tell Kowalski stories; it's pretty clear that if he hadn't been there jumping in front of bullets and through plate glass windows, Fraser wouldn't have been alive to blow Ray's cover and bring him home. 

"I'm glad you think so," says Fraser warmly. "He wanted to talk to you, by the way, hold on." 

Ray's left blinking at the long-distance static for a moment, and then Kowalski gets on the phone.

"Uh, hey," he says. "How's it going?"

"I've been better," Ray says. Kowalski snorts.

"Yeah, I bet. Listen, I wanted to let you know, my apartment's under your name, fourteen Elgin Street number two. There's a spare key in the drawer of my desk. Your desk. Anyway, it's month to month, so if you wanna use it go ahead, or let it go. Up to you."

"Right. Thanks." Kowalski won't need the apartment anymore, of course, not if he's moving in with Fraser. Ray sighs and shifts against his pillows. "Look after him, okay?"

"I think you got that backwards," says Kowalski. "I'm the one who dragged him down an ice crevasse, and I'm not gonna be anything but dead weight on a dogsled."

"It's the evil snowmobile gangs you really have to watch out for," Ray tells him, even though he knows Kowalski won't get it. He's not even going to ask about the ice crevasse thing. "I mean it, though. Look after him. I've been shot, don't make me come all the way to Canada to kick your ass."

"All right," says Kowalski, though he sounds a little like he's humoring Ray. Frannie'd better not be wrong about him.

Fraser takes the phone back, saying warmly,

"I'm glad you two are getting along."

"Yeah, sorry. It was just all the undercover stuff that had us at each other's throats, it messes with your head." 

"I imagine it does. Even a short time impersonating a woman gave me a new perspective on certain things, you know." 

Ray laughs at that, like he's meant to, though all he can manage without hurting himself is a smile and a little huff of air. 

"Listen," he says, "while we're on the subject, there are a couple of things I kept thinking about while I was in Vegas. Stuff I wanted to say to you, y'know, if I ever got the chance." 

He's thought through the words a thousand times, planned whole speeches, but he falters anyway. It turns out that the things he could imagine saying to an absent Fraser and the things he can say on a long-distance call to Canada from his hospital bed are a little different.

"Yes, Ray?" prompts Fraser. There's something odd in his tone that Ray can't quite place. Tension? What the hell does he think Ray's going to say? If they were face to face he might be able to suss it out, but on the phone it's hopeless. 

He shifts again- it's impossible to get comfortable, but it doesn't stop him from trying- and closes his eyes. 

"I'm sorry I can't pick you up at the airport," he says finally. It isn't what he planned, but it's what he's got. "Last year, I mean. I'm sorry I won't be there when you come back, and I'm sorry I can't explain, and I’m sorry I left you, Benny, do you get that?"

"Oh, Ray," says Fraser, and it's not like Ray doesn't know he's fishing for reassurance here, but that doesn't make getting it feel any less important. He's clutching the phone too hard, he realizes. He spent a lot of time imagining how this conversation might go.

"It's all right," is what Fraser says. "I understand. I was never angry with you- I missed you, and I was worried for you, of course, but never angry. You made a difficult decision and you did what needed to be done, and you were incredibly brave. The bravest person I know."

"Thanks, Benny," says Ray, and it comes out almost in a whisper. 

"I only wish I could have been there to help you," says Fraser. Ray's chest goes tight with horror at the idea- how long would Fraser last in Vegas, a week?- and he has to work hard to keep his tone light when he replies,

"Well, somebody had to look after Chicago while I was gone."

"Right you are," says Fraser.

They talk a little more, about hospital food and dogsled routes and the case against Muldoon, and then Fraser wishes him a speedy recovery again and he wishes Fraser not getting eaten by a polar bear, and that's it. Ray muffles the dial tone against his shoulder until he feels like moving to hang up the phone. Somewhere in Canada Fraser's getting ready, going, gone, as out of reach as he was from Vegas. Maybe more; Ray could have gotten a message to him in Chicago, if he he'd been willing to risk his cover and his life, but there'll be no finding the two of them up in the arctic until they come back of their own accord. No finding them at all if they don't come back, but Ray was mostly kidding about the polar bear thing. Fraser can handle himself up there.

At least they got a chance to talk. He mentally crosses _I'm sorry I was yet another person who abandoned you_ off the list of things he thought about saying. While he's at it, he crosses off _would you let me kiss you, please, just once_ as well. He promised himself that he wasn't going to chicken out on any of it, but that's not what he's doing. There's a difference between losing your nerve and accepting that you've missed your chance, if you ever had a chance to begin with, and he's not the kind of guy to ask someone to cheat.

 

\--

The months pass slowly. His recovery is harder than last time he was shot, tedious and unpredictable. The bullet wound itself heals well enough, but the nerve damage means there are days when it feels like he hasn't made any progress at all, and the doctors can't do much of anything but counsel patience. Ray does his PT and avoids the question of whether he's going back to work. Between going undercover and getting shot he could retire easily enough if he wanted to, and on some days that sounds perfect, but other days the thought of all that time stretching ahead of him with nothing to fill it is almost terrifying. He takes extended medical leave and waits to see whether he'll heal enough to even have a choice.

He's up and about before too long, but he still has to be careful with his movements, and it feels like every little thing exhausts him. He gets a TV in his room for the bad days and the rest of the time he mostly putters around the house, amazed at the amount of energy it takes to do something simple like getting himself a snack or sorting through the mail. The house itself is oddly unsettling. It was still standing after the fire, but parts of it have been rebuilt, made to look as though nothing had happened. Ray grew up here, though; he can tell the difference. A lot of his life feels like the new-old house: an almost-perfect recreation of something familiar, but scorch marks under the paint if you know where to look, never quite the same.

 

Ray's having one of his worse weeks when Fraser comes back. He's dozing in his bed, TV on low, and it takes a long time for him to register Fraser's voice from downstairs. He barely has time to lever himself to standing before Fraser's in his doorway, then inside, clasping his good shoulder and saying,

"It's good to see you, Ray," like maybe time has somehow skipped back to that stomach-churning March afternoon when Fraser and Kowalski first appeared at the hotel.

"You're back," says Ray. He can feel himself grinning, and it's unfamiliar- not that he hasn't smiled these past months, but it hasn't felt involuntary like this, like he couldn't stop even if he wanted to.

"I seem to be, yes," says Fraser. Ray laughs at him, the contained little chuckle he's developed because it doesn't make anything hurt. 

Fraser looks good. He's in jeans and a worn flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up neatly as a concession to the warm Chicago spring. He can't have been back in society long; he's clean-shaven, but his hair is shaggier than Ray's ever seen it, starting to curl, and he's noticeably thinner. It makes him look almost dangerous. Well, not really, but dangerous for Fraser, a little less wholesome Boy Scout than usual. Ray wonders if his skin is still rough from the wind and snow, and tries to put it out of his mind.

It takes them a long time to catch up. Ray doesn't have much to contribute- it's not like he's been doing much besides marking time- but it's easy enough to steer the conversation back to Fraser's one hundred and one arctic adventure stories. Kowalski co-stars in most of them, of course, but Fraser speaks of him so fondly that Ray can't really find it in himself to hold a grudge. Kowalski's obviously good for Fraser, and it's not like Ray could have gone along anyway, not when walking to the corner store is still a major expedition for him. He can be jealous without being resentful. 

"Hey, where is Kowalski, anyway?" he asks.

"I believe he's gone to the station to speak to Lieutenant Welsh. He's looking into a transfer so he can stay at the 2-7 now that his assignment is over." Fraser must misinterpret the startled look Ray gives him, because he rushes to add, "Not that he's trying to usurp your place, of course, but considering that you may be out on indefinite medical leave-"

"Hey, I'm not offended," Ray says. "That's great news! I figured you guys would be moving to Canada for sure. What are you doing, going back to the Consulate? Please tell me they're at least giving you a raise."

"Well, I hadn't decided whether I'll be moving back to Chicago yet," says Fraser, looking a little confused. "I wanted to speak to you about your plans, actually."

"But Kowalski's going back to the 2-7?" asks Ray. "Oh, no, you guys didn't break up, did you? Why didn't you say anything?" Of course Fraser is the type to put on a brave face and speak kindly about his exes, to sit through an hour of conversation without even mentioning that he's heartbroken.

Fraser blinks at him.

"No?" he says eventually, but it sounds like a question. "I believe there's been a misunderstanding. Ray Kowalski and I aren't, ah, together."

"You _aren't_?" says Ray, trying not to wince when his voice squeaks a little bit. 

"No," says Fraser, sounding more sure of it this time. "He is my dear friend, of course-"

"But you called me in the hospital and apologized a million times for going off to live snowily-ever-after with him. I thought that was your way of politely saying sorry because you knew I-" Ray cuts himself off hurriedly.

"I was apologizing for not being there to help you during your recovery," says Fraser. He sounds a little huffy, like he's offended that Ray isn't properly mad at him for leaving, and for a second Ray thinks that's distracted him enough. 

Then Fraser's face changes. Ray was his partner for two years; he knows what it looks like when Fraser's replaying something in his head, when he's piecing together evidence.

Fraser says something but Ray doesn't even register it; he's somehow up and across the room, back pressed against the wall, without even realizing he's moved. Fuck, _fuck_ , he's tipped his hand, god, it's all over. His heart is pounding and his shoulder is screaming where he must have wrenched it as he bolted. Between the pain and the panic he's losing his grip on the room, everything outside of his own protesting body going remote and indistinct. It takes a long moment for him to realize that Fraser is standing in front of him, and another to make out that he's worriedly counseling Ray to breathe.

"Can't," he says, shaking his head rapidly. His lungs want to gasp for air but he knows it will hurt, god, it will hurt like _dying_ , like the bullet tearing into his chest all over again. All he can manage are little shallow sips of air, making his head spin. 

"All right," says Fraser, in that soothing tone he uses on skittish street kids. "It's okay, you're okay. Would you like to sit down? Perhaps you'd feel better."

Ray lets Fraser lead him back to the bed, stumbling a little as his vision starts to blur out. Fraser's talking about breathing again, in through the nose, out through the mouth, and it's not like Ray doesn't know he's hyperventilating but there doesn't seem to be anything he can do about it. It takes something like ten minutes- though it feels like days- before he comes all the way back to himself. He's sweated through his shirt. Every single messed up muscle in his back and chest and arm is burning so bad he can't tell them apart, just a solid mass of pain everywhere, and the stupid nerve damage chimes in to make it feel like even the things that aren't messed up are hurting anyway.

He goes to wipe his face with his good hand and discovers that Fraser's holding it.

"Oh, god," he says instead, breaking the steady inhale-hold-exhale pattern to blow out a shaky sigh. Fraser squeezes his hand.

"Is there anything I can do?" he asks gravely.

"Pain meds in the drawer of the bedside table," Ray tells him. "Green cap. Please."

Fraser gets him a glass of water too, and doesn't say anything when Ray's hands aren't quite steady as he downs two of the pills. Ray hands the glass back and scoots gingerly up so he can prop himself on the pile of pillows; Fraser perches at the foot of the bed, watching him carefully.

There's a long silence.

"I'm sorry," Ray says eventually.

"There's no need to apologize," says Fraser. He puts his warm hand on Ray's ankle, which is maybe the one place on his body that doesn't hurt, and gives it a little reassuring rub. "Is this something that happens often?"

"First time."

"Do you have any idea what could have caused it?"

Ray laughs his stupid non-laugh. "Yeah, I know. I guess I don't do so well with anybody guessing my secrets anymore. It got all tangled up with thinking about somebody seeing through the Langoustini act." He rubs a hand over his face. "It wouldn't have been anything as nice as a bullet to the head, I'll tell you that much, not for an undercover cop. Jesus. I am never going back there, Fraser, not even for you."

"I'd never ask you to-"

"No, I know. I just meant, y'know, I wouldn't even do it if you asked, and I love you."

The sky doesn’t fall, and nobody bursts into the room with a gun. Ray makes himself take another deep breath.

"Symbolically?" Fraser asks. He's got a strange look on his face. Ray frowns at him.

"I dunno, what do you mean, symbolically? I mean I love you. If I could I'd marry you tomorrow, okay?"

"Oh," says Fraser quietly. His grip on Ray's leg tightens. "Are you sure?"

Ray would really like to throw his hands in the air, but he settles for rolling his eyes.

"Yes, I'm sure! Can we move on? Or are we having humiliate Ray in every possible way hour?"

"Of course not," says Fraser. There's a little smile starting to play around his mouth. "I just thought you might be interested to learn- well, perhaps you already know, but I assume you've been occupied with your recovery and not paying very much attention to international legislation, but just last week the Supreme Court of Canada considered the case M v. H. 2 S.C.R. 3-"

"Fraser. Just spit it out."

"Well, Ray," says Fraser, and oh, the smile has spread, he's _beaming_ , "the gist of the ruling is that common-law marriage is now considered to apply to same sex couples in Canada."

Ray gapes at him. 

"Are you saying-"

"It's not the same as legal marriage, of course, and it does require one to three years of cohabitation to qualify, depending on the province, but-"

"Shut up and get over here," Ray tells him. It would be nice to tumble Fraser onto the bed, but he settles for grabbing his shirtfront and tugging him into a kiss. It isn't much, just a soft press of lips, but when Fraser pulls back looks just as dazed as Ray feels. 

"It doesn't have to be Canada," he says, his eyes never leaving Ray's. "We can stay here if you like."

"Let me think about it," says Ray, though right then Canada sounds perfect. No more lowlife perps to chase, no more scorch marks on the walls. He gives in to the urge to cup Fraser's face with his good hand. His skin is rougher than it looks, still a little windburned. 

"All right," says Fraser. He ducks his head to press a soft kiss along Ray's jaw, then another, moving down to his neck. It kindles something warm and fluttery in Ray's stomach, though his body is too strung out to have much more of a reaction: shaky from the panic attack and tense from the pain, and in another minute the pills are going to kick in, too. He cards his fingers through Fraser's hair.

"Benny, I'm a mess," he whispers.

Fraser catches his hand and squeezes it.

"Time heals all wounds," he says.

"You believe that?"

Fraser looks like he's actually considering it.

"I'm not sure. Time closes wounds over, at least, in my experience. It teaches you to live with them." 

"That doesn't sound so bad."

"No, not at all."

Ray kisses him again, lingering, then leans his head back against the pillows before he gets carried away and strains himself too much.

"I thought about this, you know," he says. "In Vegas. I had a list of things I wanted to say if I ever got home."

"Yes, I remember."

"One of them was- I wanted to ask if I could kiss you, just once."

Fraser settles carefully next to him on the bed, rubbing his thumb over Ray's with a smile.

"Well, I'm sorry to disappoint," he says, "but I'm afraid that once is out of the question."


End file.
